


Indebted

by Amort



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gaslighting, M/M, Manipulation, Physical Abuse, Sexual Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-02
Updated: 2018-04-23
Packaged: 2019-04-17 13:07:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,062
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14189610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amort/pseuds/Amort
Summary: Modern AU.Having just lost his mother, with Bethany sick, and his family about to bankrupt, Hawke hires a temporary worker to help get the family business in order. Little does he know, his new employee is not quite who he claims to be, but this knowledge comes too late for Hawke, who finds himself dragged into a dangerous situation -- one where he isn't sure who to trust anymore.Expect characters from the whole Dragon Age II cast to appear, although some will have larger parts to play than others. The tags are subject to change. Some of the warnings are more allusions to events rather than explicit descriptions of events, but I wanted to be on the safe side so anyone reading won't be surprised.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> New to this. Please point out any errors or mistakes. Hawke, Fenris, etc. are mostly based upon Dragon Age's characterization of them, but since this is a Modern AU, some aspects of their characters will necessarily change. 
> 
> Thanks. Please enjoy.

_I’m not sure what any of this means,_ Hawke thought to himself, shaking his head in defeat.

He sat at a tiny desk – the kind he used to sit at in grammar school when twenty years younger; the kind where the chair and desk were connected. Just to fit into it, Hawke’s knees were pushed hard against the top of the underside of the desk and his back was bent at an awkward angle. Sadly enough, twenty years ago, Hawke used to have to fold himself over the same way to fit into the seat, and now, twenty years later, it was even more difficult for him to stuff his long legs and muscular body into the formed desk.

_Oh, Mother,_ he complained, leafing through the many pages of the spiral bound notebook laid out across the pockmarked, graffiti strewn desktop. Her spindly, scrawling penmanship was easy enough to recognize, but hard to read. _It’s no wonder you got so far behind on the bills. How could you even run a store with this bookkeeping system?_

Ten years ago and a few weeks before Hawke graduated high school, his father had died of a sudden heart attack. A few months after his death, Hawke’s grieving mother had bought this antique shop from an elderly lady who had been looking to retire. Despite its outrageous cost, none of the three Hawke children had complained about Liandra spending the family’s money to do it – some of which had come from the college fund their parents had set up for Hawke, Bethany, and Carver. Although the Hawke family had never been rich, they had always lived comfortably, with Malcolm the breadwinner and Liandra mostly choosing to stay at home to raise their children, though over the years, Liandra had held a few part time jobs and done charity work at the Chantry when her kids were older.

The Hawkes’ had once lived in a nice if small house in a better part of town. But after buying this shop, and after five years of Liandra investing every dime of the Hawke family’s assets into keeping the place running, the family house had been sold, most of the extra furniture and decorations placed into the shop for sale, and Liandra had moved into the miniscule apartment on the top floor of the shop’s building. By then, the twins had gone off to college, Hawke had long since moved out and lived on his own, and the apartment had been enough for their mother.

Hawke had skipped college so he could go straight into the workforce to earn money to help out his brother and sister with their college ambitions, but it was not because he could not have done succeeded at university. No, Hawke had chosen instead to pick up a trade skill – one he had taken interest in since a child, one his father had encouraged by teaching Garrett all he knew of the profession, even though it had not been Malcolm’s profession but a hobby for him. After graduation, Hawke immediately went to work at a locally owned hardware store for immediate income, but he had spent much of his discretionary earnings buying tools and used most of his free time honing his skills in carpentry. When he was younger, he had started with building birdhouses and rickety shelves out of scrap wood before he had moved on to making plain but functional, small pieces of furniture like end tables, stools, and bookcases. After years of practicing on his own, working night shifts with other carpenters in the area for real-world practice, and offering up his free time to do volunteer work with Habitat for Humanity, Hawke had felt ready to make carpentry his living, not just his pastime. Hawke had folders upon folders on his laptop filled with pieces he had planned out using software designed for this purpose, and he even had an old shoebox full of hand drawn projects for every piece of furniture one could think of, but also, of ornate wainscoting, handrails, staircases, window sills – so long as it was made of wood, Hawke could fabricate it and enjoy doing so. Moreover, he was _good_ at it. Already, he had made a name for himself with his handmade pieces, having sold several just by word of mouth.

Just when Hawke had finally convinced himself to take the chance, quit the hardware store, and start upon his own path by opening a furniture store – not just any store, but one where he made all the pieces to order –  his mother had died, and those plans had been put on hold for the foreseeable future.

_Maybe once I get this place in order, I can convert it to my own shop. Kind of do both antiques and my own work,_ he pondered, though all that wishful thinking was pushed to the back of his mind. Right now, he needed to figure out the mess his mother had left them. Garret rubbed at the rough beard over his face, sighing as he did so. _How in Thedas am I supposed to suss this shit out?_ Hawke twisted in the hard, wooden chair to swing his legs out from under the desk, only to bump his knees upon the low hanging bottom half of the shelf under the desktop. He hissed out half an expletive before quieting himself. His sister hated to hear him cuss. He flipped the battered cover of the notebook shut and pushed himself out of the chair, stumbling a bit when his cramped legs protested his sudden standing.

“Bethany!” he called, facing the back of the small store now. Barely giving his young sister the time to answer, he shouted impatiently, “Bethany!”

“Maker’s breath, brother. I was making a pot of coffee in the back room – not picking the beans in Tevinter. You don’t need to scream,” she began reproving playfully as she walked into the main room of the store, which was where she found Hawke, hobbling towards her with one hand rubbing his knee. “What is the matter with you?”

“Sometimes, sister, you sound just like Mom when you nag me,” he told her with a teasing smile.

He was prevaricating, for in fact, how his sister rubbed her hands dry on a tea towel before she draped the cloth over her shoulder reminded him more of their mother than did her badgering him about his loudness. Bethany and Carver both looked more like Liandra had than did Hawke, but Bethany had also picked up many of their mother’s behaviors, and seeing these small replications of Liandra’s mannerisms caused Garrett’s chest to ache with the freshening of their shared loss. But he was the eldest, the one to whom the twins could turn when they needed someone, and he did not have the luxury for grieving when he had his siblings to look after right now.

Rather than answer this good-natured insult, Bethany tugged the tea towel off her shoulder and snapped it at Hawke, where it made a loud but painless thwack upon his rear end. He smiled back at his sister for a moment, until he remembered what had him so aggravated.

Pointing towards the notebook containing their mother’s attempt at bookkeeping, a highly exasperated Hawke complained, “I don’t understand any of what she has written down. I can’t even tell who is making payments, who isn’t, and who is paid off, or what they brought in as collateral. I can’t tell what anyone bought or if they paid it off in full. What the hell does it all mean? Why couldn’t she have just stuck to selling antiques?”

“And I don’t understand why you’re asking me, brother,” Bethany retorted. Ever cheerful, his sister leant against the doorframe leading into the backroom and smiled in spite of her brother’s frustration. “She never let me touch her books, try though I did to help her get it all sorted out. You know that, Garrett.”

For some reason, over the years, everyone who knew him had taken to calling Garrett by his surname of Hawke – except Bethany. Even Carver called his older brother Hawke now, unless he was angry with him, which was often. And then, he rarely called him Garrett, but something along the lines of “hulking asshole” or “brutish shit for brains.”

Bethany continued, “Besides, does it really matter? I’m sure most of those people will be in the wind now that they’ve learnt Mother has passed away. Do you really think any of them will show up to make payments? In fact, I’m guessing the only return customers we will have now are the people looking to get their consignments out of here before we go under,” she added with unusual chirpiness, given her bleak statement.

Her merriment was strained, however, and Hawke could see this in how Bethany paled and grimaced slightly as she moved out of the doorway and closer to Hawke, her hand to grab hold of him in case she lost her balance. His irritation evaporated at once with this reminder of exactly why he was here trying to wade through the mess of the shop, rather than let the place be foreclosed upon by the bank.

“Are you feeling alright?” he asked his sister. Hawke laid his hand upon Bethany’s shoulder, seeking to comfort her despite knowing there was nothing he could do to ease her pain. “Maybe you should go lie down for a while. You’ve been doing too much today.”

“Fine for now, thanks.” Bethany gave Garrett a sincere smile, “Just a twinge. It will pass. And I’ve done nothing all day,” she argued back, punching him softly in the upper arm. “I’ve barely made a dent in this mess Mom called ‘inventory,’ half of which is nothing but junk – or so it looks to me.”

It was hard for anyone not to grin back at Bethany when she smiled at them. His sister just had that effect upon people; Bethany was easy going, undemanding, and nearly always sunny. But right now, Hawke could barely muster a fleeting grin in return. His sister’s pain would not pass – for the moment, perhaps, but not for long, and especially so if they could not get Bethany the surgery she needed. And right now, Hawke, Bethany, and Carver couldn’t afford it, their paltry medical insurance considered it “experimental” and wouldn’t cover the costs, and the money Liandra had left upon her death had been barely enough to have her buried, with only enough left over for her three children to make a single payment on the building’s mortgage.

Sometimes, Hawke felt certain his whole family was cursed. Six weeks ago, Bethany had called Hawke at work to tell him that she had stopped in to see their mother, only to find her dead in the kitchen floor of her small upstairs apartment. Liandra had died from what was later deemed a massive aneurysm. It was of some comfort to know their mother had died nearly instantly, without suffering, but it was of no comfort to them to think she had passed away while alone and had lain dead in her kitchen floor for hours before being found. Had not Bethany unexpectedly come by that day, they would not have found Liandra until the following Sunday night when the twins came from college for their bimonthly family dinner. Hawke had his own special brand of guilt to deal with over the matter, for he had not spent much time with his mother the last few years, despite still living in the same city – unlike the twins, who lived year round in Val Royeaux for university. Between his shifts at the hardware store, working in his woodshop in his little rented house, and browsing the paltry nightlife of Kirkwall in an attempt to stave off his vast loneliness, Hawke had not spent much time with Liandra.

And what had been the reason Bethany had left university during midterm exams to see their mother? Well, Bethany had just learnt she had a brain tumor. An _inoperable_ brain tumor. That single day was currently the worst day Garrett could ever remember for the Hawke family. And as far as he was concerned, hits just kept on coming – he was the head of family now, and Hawke would do whatever it took to sort out this whole brain tumor business and ensure his sister lived a long and happy life.

“Bethany,” he began to argue back, but upon seeing the welling tears in her eyes, Hawke instead stepped forward and pulled his younger sibling into his arms. She pressed her forehead hard into the side of his neck and squeezed him back with all her worth. She could try to hide it all she wanted; Garrett knew his sister was frightened. He said her name again, though this time, he unknowingly slipped into a tone of voice the Hawke children knew well, as it was the same one Malcolm used when trying to ameliorate his children’s worries, “Bethany. It will be ok. I promise you. I will find a way. You’re not going through this alone. Me and Carver are here for you, always, and between the two of us, we will find a solution. I promise.”

To his own ears, Hawke definitely sounded more confident than he felt. Years of experience made it easy for Bethany to trust Garrett to keep his word, as rarely had he let her down before now. Bethany’s soft sniffles softened into sporadic sighs. “I know you will, brother. You’re right. It will all be ok.”

They stood that way for quite some time, merely enjoying their embrace, needing it for comfort, and neither willing to be the first to pull away from the other. Eventually, though, Bethany stepped back and pulled the tea towel from off her shoulder again so she could wipe at her tear-streaked face. Playfully, she punched him in the arm again, breaking the moment of solemnity and causing Hawke to gasp in mock pain. He held onto his bicep as if she had stabbed him.

“Damn it, sis! I might have a bruise now,” he complained petulantly, just to see that smirking, knowing, and familiar smile upon her kind face as she shook her head at his overreaction. Even though she had wiped the tears from her face, the dark circles under her eyes caused Hawke to suggest, “But seriously. You should go rest. The back room can wait.”

“Get over it, you big baby. And I told you, I’m fine.” Bethany opened her mouth to say something else, but the bell at the front door rang, which distracted Hawke, giving Bethany the opportunity to slip out from under Hawke’s brotherly attention and into the back again, leaving Hawke to deal with whoever this was.

With all the vintage knickknacks scattered and piled in the shop upon every piece of antique furniture and every counter, he had to walk towards the center of the room just to see who had entered. A person stood at the entrance, his or her back turned to Hawke, appearing to be looking around for someone or something.

His years of working in retail kicked in, and Hawke called out a greeting, saying, “Good morning. Anything I can help you with?”

The customer startled at the acknowledgement and spun around with eerie grace. He was dressed in a black t-shirt and dark jeans, over which he wore a halfway zipped, dark grey hoodie that swallowed the short, slender man from the top of his head to mid-thigh. Out from under the hood, which the customer had pulled low over his forehead, there fell a few strands of shockingly white hair. His first impression was that this customer was one of the old-but-trying-to-look-hip clients his mother had seemed to attract with her eclectic collection of antiques, but upon seeing the customer’s face, Hawke realized despite the white hair, he was around the same age as was Hawke. More surprising than the guy’s white hair was the intricate pattern of tattooing trailing down the man’s chin and into the collar of his t-shirt.

_High cheekbones, beautiful green eyes, and those lips…_ Hawke thought, ticking off each of the man’s handsome features to himself, while hiding his licentious thoughts under the farcical interest he hand long ago learned to feign in his customer service job. _Those lips are made for  –_

The stranger cleared his throat, which diverted Hawke from continuing down that line of wayward thinking. When the man remained quiet, appearing flustered and nervous, the stray thought this man might be a criminal here to rob the place crossed his mind; immediately, Hawke’s plastered on, practiced smile burgeoned with a little more sincerity because of the hilarity of his imagining. Not only could he likely take this man in a fight, there was nothing here to steal, lest the man intended to make off with an antique bookcase, and anyone with any sense could see that upon first entering the shop.

Again, Hawke patiently asked, “Can I help you with anything?”

For a few seconds more, the man only stared at Hawke, his lips slightly parted and a fairly attractive blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks. Ever the professional, though, Hawke kept his “customer service smile” firmly in place and waited in easygoing expectation for the man to respond.

“The sign,” the man finally said, and then cleared his throat again as he turned to the entrance door as if to check if said sign hadn’t evaporated into thin air as had his composure. He cleared his throat for a third time and whirled back around to face Hawke. “You’re looking for temporary help? What’s the job?”

Hawke had quite forgotten Bethany had placed the sign in the front window this morning. Hawke realized he owed his sister a steak dinner for winning their bet – he had said a sign in the window was old fashioned and would never work, she had said they would find someone willing to help within a week. It had taken less than two hours. Between Hawke’s strange grin and equally peculiar silence, the man across from Hawke was growing wary – or so it seemed to Hawke, who watched as his potential new employee took a nervous step backward towards the door.

_Little skittish, isn’t he?_ he observed to himself. _Oh, but he is going to be so much fun to watch work. All that bending over, working up a sweat. I think I’m getting hot just thinking about it. Maybe if I turn the AC down he will get warm enough to take that t-shirt off. I’d like to see those tattoos._ Hawke almost chastised himself for being so pervy after knowing the guy for a whole three minutes, but he had not been out on a date in months and it had been weeks – when his mother died, actually – since Hawke had allowed himself the time to go out to enjoy himself with friends, much less with any potential partners.

Forcefully yanking his mind out of the gutter, he said aloud, “Yes, I’m looking for some temporary help, if you are interested in lugging and sorting through dusty boxes and pushing old furniture around every day for a few weeks. Shouldn’t take longer than a month, I’d say. No paperwork. Job won’t last long enough for it. I can pay you in cash. Short version is this: I just acquired this store and I need to sort, catalogue, and display as much merchandise as possible as soon as possible. For you, that means a lot of manual labor, but I think with the both of us, we can get it done easy enough. Sound good?” he prompted.

The man’s hand drifted up to the pull ties of his hood, which he began to wrap around one of his long fingers. To Hawke’s amazement, the same silvery ink tattooed upon the guy’s face could be found on the back of his hand and fingers. He looked away before he was caught staring. When no answer came, Hawke continued on, assuring the man, “Look, there’s no commitment. You can work today, and if you don’t want to come back tomorrow, no problem. I can pay you in cash at the end of every day. You quit whenever you want.  

It was strange. Usually given the economy, potential employees were practically begging employers for jobs, but here Hawke was cajoling someone into working for him. Maker only knew why. Maybe it was just because this stranger was smoking hot; maybe it was because Hawke had a thing for wounded animals – and this guy had all the signs of the wounded animal type. He held his hand out towards the shorter man, giving him his best, congenial, and totally ‘not a pervert’ smile.

“Name is Garrett Hawke, but everyone just calls me Hawke. Pleasure to meet you.”

The guy stared at Hawke’s hand for a brief moment, as if unsure of quite how to respond, which was silly to consider, since everyone knew how to shake a hand in greeting, right? But a moment before Hawke considered pulling his hand back, thinking perhaps the guy was a germophobe or just one of those people who preferred not to be touched, the shorter man stuck his hand out and grabbed Hawke’s in a firm hold, giving it a quick couple of pumps before releasing it and stepping back and away from Hawke.

A very brief but captivating smile lit the smaller man’s face. “Fenris. My name is Fenris.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Should have said this in chapter one -- this story is a slow burn. It will be a long one, too. I think the DA 2 fandom might be dying, but my tinfoil hat for Hawke/Fenris will forever reside upon my head, so although I guess I'm writing this for myself, I will still try to post on the regular. :D

“Fenris,” he repeated back to his new employee, liking the sound of the man’s name, unusual though it was. “Well, Fenris,” Hawke offered, scratching his bearded chin as he thought aloud, “You look like you can lift heavy furniture, and of course, I will be here working alongside you, so between the two of us, we can manage it, I believe. And as I said, you can start work right now, if you like. If not, you can come back tomorrow. But there’s plenty to get done and the sooner the better,” Hawke finished upon realizing he was rambling a bit. He grinned at his own mild nervousness. He always got like this around handsome men.

“That’s it?” Fenris asked of Hawke.

Fenris pushed his hoodie’s hood fully from off his head, which exposed the man’s hair entirely. Having been cooped up under the hood and now freed, Fenris’ shaggy hair was wildly unkempt, but not in a crackhead having rolled around in the gutter way, but in what Hawke found to be a an utterly sexy, having just rolled out of bed after a night of great sex kind of way.

Again, Hawke yanked his mind from the proverbial gutter. Here he was imagining Fenris padding barefoot across Hawke’s hardwood kitchen floor to grab a cup of hot coffee from Hawke after waking up from a night of what Hawke could only imagine would be wild and passionate sex, while currently, Fenris looked ready to bolt for the door. Not to mention the very real possibility that Fenris could be straight – it would not keep Hawke from enjoying the view, but he was not about to make a lecherous fool of himself if he could help it.

It took a moment of Fenris staring at Hawke for Hawke to realize he had not really been paying attention to the guy and thus had not answered his question. Motioning with his hand for Fenris to follow, Hawke turned and began weaving through the maze of junk his mother had so loved to buy and sell, saying as he did so, “Is what it?”

Hawke did not turn to see if Fenris followed, but Fenris answered him, at least, so Hawke assumed he was coming along. “You didn’t ask me anything about work experience, or qualifications. I guess I expected an interview.”

He snorted in laughter, and then cut himself off when he considered Fenris might think he was laughing at him, rather than at the situation. “Look,” he explained, slipping in behind the sales counter and stopping to pick up his empty coffee cup, before nodding towards the backroom’s door and again motioning with his hand for Fenris to follow. “This job doesn’t require qualifications or an interview. All I need is for someone to help me lift heavy things. And maybe a little cleaning. Light stuff. Polishing the furniture and the floors, I guess. I haven’t gotten that far into planning, to be honest. So long as you can do all that, you’re more than qualified.”

The strong and pleasant scent of the fresh coffee his sister had made enticed Hawke through the door of the backroom and into the room proper, while again he merely assumed Fenris would trail along behind him. He set his cup on the small kitchen counter and began searching the open cupboard overhead for a clean cup for Fenris; and yet, when he turned to ask the man if he wanted a cup of coffee, he noticed how Fenris lingered in the doorway between the front salesroom and the backroom, indecision and wariness blatant upon his face.

Hawke was a people person. He always had been. Carpentry was his life’s work, his passion, and his obsession, but watching and studying people was his pastime, and like carpentry, Hawke excelled at it. He concluded from Fenris’ behavior, _Yes, definitely the wounded animal type. I’ll need to take it easy with him._ It was clear Fenris did not like the idea of coming into the relatively dark backroom with Hawke, alone and without knowing Hawke but for a few minutes.

He offered congenially, holding up the empty mug, “Would you like a cup of coffee? My sister just brewed it.”

“Your sister?” Fenris queried, with his eyes wide and his gaze taking in every detail of the room.

Had there been anything truly interesting for him to be looking at, Fenris’ reaction might have made sense. Hawke had the feeling Fenris was the kind of guy who made sure to know the exits to any room he entered, who would turn around swinging his fists if someone startled him from behind, and who would not be comfortable in small spaces with Hawke. All this meant Hawke would need to be very careful around Fenris – not because he was frightened of Fenris or of what he might do, but because Hawke did not want to alarm Fenris.

He nodded as he inspected the inside of the mug, checking to make sure it was actually clean. “Yeah, my sister. She’s around here somewhere.”

He poured himself a cup and then poured one for Fenris, even though he hadn’t answered Hawke as to whether he wanted it or not. Hawke first flipped the switch on the wall to turn on the overhead light, since the only light at the moment was from a small lamp attached under the cupboard to shine on the counter. Now that the room was well lit, Hawke carried a mug in each hand to the old, tiny, chipped, square Formica table against the wall, and then set one upon the tabletop towards Fenris, who had yet to enter the room all the way. Hawke had a feeling he knew just what – or who – would set Fenris at ease.

“Bethany!” he called out forcefully. “Come meet our new employee!”

Oh yes, Hawke had a thing for wounded animals; only the Maker knew why. Stray, starving, and abused dogs who would run at the sight of anyone else would walk straight up to Hawke, tail wagging so hard their rear ends would wobble, and let Hawke love on them. Feral cats who would hiss at everyone would run to weave between Hawke’s legs without his first acknowledging them. Squirrels, birds, and once even a raccoon, seemed to love Hawke on sight. Since Hawke was tall, broad shouldered, and mostly muscle, he ought to have scared tiny animals away. And yet, he just had a calming effect on frightened, mistreated animals – and people.

Carver used to call him Doctor Dolittle after some movie Hawke had never seen. Bethany used to tease Hawke by saying animals only loved him because he smelled like one.

Thus, Garrett did not push for Fenris to walk in and join him. Hawke merely sat down in one of the foldout chairs around the table. He did not acknowledge how strange Fenris was acting with his refusal to enter the room. Instead, Hawke spun the too full and slightly wobbly lazy Susan in the middle of the table until he found the bottle of powdered hazelnut creamer – his current favorite – and began pouring a small mountain of it into his mug.

The rhythmic sound of his sister’s feet on the stairs preceded her arrival by only moments. Hawke found himself chastising her in his mind, thinking, _She ought not to be running down those narrow steps._ Right now, Bethany might be feeling fine enough, but dizziness would oftentimes overwhelm her, and should it happen while she was running recklessly down the steps, she might fall and break her neck. He refrained from saying anything aloud, though, as airing his family’s dirty laundry within the first ten minutes of Fenris’ employment seemed like a bad idea. Grabbing a plastic straw – which was the closest to a spoon he could find on the table – Garrett slid it out of the paper wrapper and stirred his copious amount of creamer into the thick, dark brew. Bethany always said coffee was not _good_ coffee unless it stuck to the sides of the cup, and she had really outdone herself with this pot.

He chanced to look up at Fenris, who was still in the doorway, still quiet, and still nervous. Nonetheless, when Bethany entered from the small hallway leading to the stairway, which led upstairs to the studio apartment their mother had lived in for the last few years of her life, Fenris’ face relaxed with what Hawke read as utmost relief, though as to why Fenris should be so reassured to find Bethany here, he could not yet hazard a guess. He knew he would figure it out eventually, though.

_Did he think Bethy was imaginary? Or maybe he’s already pegged you as a pervert,_ Hawke kidded himself, shaking his head in regret and amusement and blowing the steam from the surface of his mug to take a sip, _and he doesn’t want to be left alone with you. Either that, or he has good taste and realizes how pretty Bethy is,_ he reflected. Immediately, Garrett’s hackles rose at nothing more than his own thoughts. His sister was a grown woman, of course, and she could do as she damn well pleased. However, Hawke had spent too many years of his life watching out for his siblings for him to see them as adults just yet. Besides, to Hawke, Bethany was still the freckled, scabby kneed ten-year-old little girl whose pigtails were always coming undone because she would fret the ends of her ribbons with her buckteeth.

“Good morning,” Bethany greeted Fenris, not hesitating in the least as she went straight to their new employee and reached out for his hand. “I’m Bethany. And you are?”

Her buckteeth had long since been corrected into a beautiful smile by expensive orthodontistry, her dark hair was no longer a mess of tangles but coifed into a loose and flattering bun at her nape, and those freckles she used to hate were now somewhat dimmed by the light makeup she wore. Barefoot in her jeans and baggy t-shirt, she was not one to dress up very often, but Bethany did not need anything to enhance her natural beauty. Yeah, so maybe Hawke was a little biased, but he thought his sister was beautiful. He often teased Carver over Bethy having received all the good genes while in their mother’s womb, with Carver having to settle for the leftovers. In truth, both twins were good looking and smart as hell, and Hawke was most glad of the latter, since it meant they were both excelling in college and would have bright, hopefully financially stable futures ahead of them – if needed, Hawke would work himself to death to ensure it was so.

Whereas Hawke usually surprised everyone when they learnt he was a “gentle giant,” everyone gleaned right off how Bethany was a wonderful and kind person, so it was no surprise to Hawke when Fenris did not so much as flinch or falter at her friendliness, but took her hand straightaway. “My name is Fenris. I am pleased to meet you,” he responded with a smile more genuine than the one he had earlier given Hawke, but no less attractive.

“As am I, Fenris. Now, come sit down and have some coffee. Did you pour him a cup, Garrett?” Bethany asked as she all but pulled Fenris by the hand to the table, before gently pushing him into the seat across from Hawke. “Oh, you did pour him one,” she answered before Hawke had the chance to do so. The moment Fenris was sitting down, she moved the mug to sit right before him and then took the chair between Hawke and Fenris. “There’s sugar and cream here, and some flavored creamers, if you like that. Hawke’s a big baby and thinks my coffee is too strong, so we have to keep things to “candy” it up for him,” she was saying.

Right now, Bethany sounded just like their mother used to sound like when making pleasantries, but rather than realizing and pondering over this little detail, Hawke did now as he used to do while his mother made small talk with someone – he tuned Bethany out and instead listened to the cadence and singsong loveliness of her voice rather than the content of the conversation. And just as he used to do when with his mother was chitchatting, Hawke studied the person to whom the small talk was directed.

From the looks of him, Fenris was enjoying Bethany’s naturally nurturing demeanor; moreover, he appeared highly surprised to be the recipient of it. Able to stare openly at Fenris since Fenris was fixated on Bethany and what she was rambling on about in concerns to creamers and coffee or whatever the hell she was saying, Hawke watched the man’s finely made, angular face. He had known Fenris for all of ten minutes now, but Hawke could already tell a few things about Fenris that most people likely could not after meeting him. From watching how Fenris nodded and smiled honestly at Bethany, Hawke knew that for whatever reason, Fenris did not get to enjoy attention from women very often, and having Bethy giving him her sole consideration right now was making Fenris’ day.

_Figures,_ Hawke lamented, gulping down his coffee so he could avoid it lingering on his tongue, and therefore he could avoid tasting it. _Extremely hot guy comes into the store looking for a job, and turns out he’s straight. Knew it was too good to be true._ Ruefully, Hawke shook his head and slugged down a gulp of coffee as if it were beer.

“Isn’t that right, Garrett?” Bethany asked.

He jumped a bit upon hearing his name, immediately hoping he had not been caught staring at Fenris, while his startlement caused Hawke’s mug to lurch, which sloshed hot coffee over his thumb. Like a dummy, he jerked his hand in an attempt to get away from the pain and ended up spilling even more coffee over himself, while shouting out much too loudly for the small room, “Fuck!”

Adding insult to injury, Bethany immediately reached over and gave Hawke a none too gentle smack on the back of the head, which of course jostled the cup again and caused more of the coffee to end up over the rim, though this time it landed on the table, at least.

“Watch your language, Garrett,” she complained to him while reaching behind her to the counter to grab the tea towel she had left there earlier. “No one wants to hear it. And don’t be rude – I said, ‘Isn’t that right?’”

Bethany took the cup out of Hawke’s hand and sat it on the table, before she began wiping at his hand and then the table, mothering him as she loved to do. Having missed what Fenris and Bethany were speaking of during his perusal of Fenris’ reaction to Bethany’s attention, Hawke was at a loss. He glanced at Fenris to see if he could gather some sign of how to respond, which is when he observed how Fenris was smiling at the two siblings in a relaxed, amused manner, unlike his uneasiness from earlier.

Always the people pleaser, Hawke decided to see if he could make the reticent man laugh, and so egged his sister on, saying, “I’ve no idea what you were talking about, Bethy. You sounded so much like Mom blathering about antiques or her book club that I lost all interest and started daydreaming.”

With what Hawke decided was the sexiest chuckle he had ever heard, Fenris’ smile grew and his emerald eyes glimmered in hilarity, though it was not Hawke’s teasing of Bethany to cause this, but her response of smacking him upside the head again. _One point for Hawke,_ he told himself.

Having mopped up the sticky coffee mess, Bethany threw the towel back to the counter and crossed her arms over her chest in mock aggravation. “Maker’s grace, brother. Could you try not to be a lout for one day? Fenris is our first and only employee. Don’t make run him off the same day you hired him.”

Hawke took up his mug again and sipped the sludgy liquid, which was made only slightly better by the copious sugary creamer he had poured into it. As if whispering to his coffee, though of course not so quietly he could not be heard, he complained with a murmur into the mug, “Who says ‘lout’ anyway? Two years of college later and now I have a snob for a sister.”

Both Bethany and Fenris snickered at this, to Hawke’s pleasure. He definitely enjoyed hearing Fenris laugh.

Shaking her head with a long-suffering sigh ruined by her grin for him, Bethany retorted to Hawke, “Yes, yes, brother. An absolute snob for knowing a common four letter word.”

Fenris absently selected one of the flavored, powdered creamers on the lazy Susan and poured it into his until now forgotten cup of coffee. This prompted Bethany to find him an actual spoon to use, which she tried to locate behind her on the messy but otherwise clean counter. While she looked, Fenris kindly prompted Hawke by saying, “Bethany was telling me neither of you are very knowledgeable about antiques, and that this shop is your inheritance, which is why you’ve hired me to help you get it in order.”

“Ah. Yes,” he agreed. Taking another sip of the awful coffee, he asked with some hope, “Say, you don’t know anything about antiques, do you?”

By then Bethany turned back around in her chair, fresh spoon in hand, and handed it to Fenris, who thanked her and stirred his coffee with deliberate, slow motions. Oddly, or so it seemed to Hawke, Fenris avoided the sides of the mug, as though he were trying to stir without making any clinking sounds of the spoon hitting the ceramic cup. Abruptly, the spoon stopped its swirling and Fenris’ head shot up to look between brother and sister, some of the wariness back on his face after a moment of considering Hawke’s question.

“I do not. Is that a problem?” he asked the siblings, apparently worried his lack of knowledge of antiques would preclude him from keeping his newfound job. Fenris sat up a little straighter in his foldout chair and set the spoon down carefully upon a paper plate left from Bethany’s breakfast. “I mean, you said the job was manual labor, not salesmanship, so I will not need to know about your inventory, right?”

“No, no, not at all. I was only hoping you might know a thing or two, which would be a thing or two more than what either of us know about antiques,” Hawke assured Fenris, snorting in derision at his and his sister’s bafflement when it came to the shop.

Fenris’ tension seeped from his shoulders and face, while Bethany gave her brother a smile. Hawke managed to chug down a little more coffee, watching Fenris take his first sip. To his amusement, the man’s green eyes grew wide in surprise at the strong taste. _He’ll be too nice to say how awful it is, I’m betting. Especially since he knows Bethany made it._ Hawke briefly considered asking Fenris how well he liked the brew, just to check if his assumption was correct, but from the main room came the ding of the front door’s bell.

Although Bethany began away to see to whomever was out there, Hawke rose from his chair, put a hand on her shoulder, and gently eased her back into sitting, saying, “I’ll get it, sis. Why don’t you and Fenris talk about the finer details of his employment – such as agreeing upon what is fair for us to pay him and when he’s available to work?”

Hawke nodded and smiled at Fenris as he walked past him and into the showroom, once again weaving his way between pieces of furniture to get near the front door so he could greet his customer. From behind him, Bethany and Fenris resumed chatting, with Bethany’s friendly, gentle tone having turned into her “professional” voice, as Hawke thought of it, because in the past few weeks he had already learned that when it came to money and managing the store, Bethany did not fool about. She knew as well as Hawke and Carver did that this old building full of junk was their only chance at making the ends meet to get Bethany’s experimental surgery done.

He smoothed his hair down a bit and straightened his button down shirt to greet his customer, praying as he walked towards the door that they might actually sell something from this Maker-forsaken store today.


End file.
